


Green Eyes

by lodgedinmythoughts



Category: Captain America (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: 5+1 Things, Conveniently stranded together, Enemies to Lovers, Explicit Sexual Content, F/M, Jealous Steve Rogers, Jealousy, Misunderstandings, Possessive Behavior, Possessive Steve Rogers, Remember that wood chopping scene from AoU, Resolved Sexual Tension, Size Kink, Steve being a tiny bit rough oOooOooh, Steve is a little emotionally constipated, Steve is secretly a caveman and has a filthy mouth, Steve's glorious leather jacket, Unresolved Sexual Tension, me too
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-04-24
Updated: 2019-06-30
Packaged: 2020-01-25 18:16:02
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 9,802
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18579925
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lodgedinmythoughts/pseuds/lodgedinmythoughts
Summary: There are moments when Steve's eyes are greener than usual.aka 5 times you experience jealousy—and 1 time he does.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Yeah so I told myself I should get out all the happy and fluffy fics I can think of before Endgame comes around and inevitably fucks me up, but?? Idk.
> 
> To the ladies of the MCU: sorry to use you this way.

**5.**

He’s all wrapped up in Sharon, or at least that’s how it appears. They’re not touching, but they don’t have to be for it to hit you like a punch to the gut. Steve has one hand in his pocket and one around his drink, his whole body angled toward hers. His focus is on her and her alone.

You’re all dressed to the nines at another benefit. You didn’t want to come and serve merely as an attraction, but Tony has a way of cajoling people into doing his bidding. Not that it’s a terrible chore to attend a lavish party, of course. You just wanted to avoid the very thing taking up your line of sight this very second.

It’s pathetic, you know. He’s not interested in you—in any capacity except for the conditions which force you to work together.

You should be happy for him. After all he’s been through, it’s the least he deserves. Happiness.

Even if it’s not with you.

When you see the way he sends her his smiles, the ones that don’t come as often as they used to, your heart falters, and you almost feel hollow.

But if she’s able to draw them out of him, make the world just that much brighter with each of his well-earned smiles—well, then, you can’t begrudge her that.

Still, you do.

 

**4.**

Parties aren’t his natural habitat, but after so many, it’s clear he’s found his groove among the throngs of people pretending not to pay him special attention but wishing desperately they could get a moment with the de facto leader of the Avengers.

He doesn’t display the assured pomposity of Tony or the brute otherworldliness of Thor, but the air surrounding him that’s specifically unique to him seems to evoke leadership, inspiring loyalty and probably more, if the women surrounding him are any indication.

You can see he’s not comfortable with the attention, and he could just make a polite excuse to leave like you’ve seen him do before. But he stays, accepting their praise with modest smiles and nods. You can’t blame the women, nor can you blame him for sticking around.

You suppose it wouldn’t hurt so much if not twenty minutes ago he didn’t quietly slink away after Rhodey called you over to the small group consisting of himself, Bruce, Maria Hill and Steve. You could feel Steve’s eyes on you from across the circle as you were plied with questions from the others about the upgrade in your suit, and the attention had you fumbling.

Then everyone was taking part in a spirited debate about Tony’s tech obsession, and Steve chose that moment to casually step back, head dipped slightly so as not to draw attention to himself. No one else paid it any mind, but you did, catching his eye for the briefest of moments before his mouth tilted up subtly in a resigned smile and he turned away.

He doesn’t seem so resigned now as he talks to those ladies.

Turning your back to the scene, you almost think you can put him out of your mind for the rest of the night.

 

**3.**

When it’s almost time to leave for the movies, you head over to Wanda’s room, fully intending to flop down face-first onto the bed after another intense training session. But when you arrive at the open door, you’re instead greeted by the sight of Wanda and Steve sitting next to each other at the edge of her bed.

Your heart jumps at the sight of Steve, grateful his back is to you so he can’t see. You mean to back out of the room so they can resume their conversation in private, but then you swear your name comes out of his mouth.

You shouldn’t eavesdrop, but curiosity gets the better of you and you hover right outside the door where they can’t see. But it’s all for naught since their voices turn to murmurs too low for you to comprehend.

Steve exits the room first, steps faltering when he sees you by the doorframe. Then he gives you a tiny nod followed by your name in that low voice of his before he’s off in the other direction.

Wanda comes out after him. “It’s not polite to eavesdrop, you know.”

“I wasn’t. I was just coming by since we’re leaving for the movie soon. We’re still going, right?”

“Yes.” She leans against the doorframe, looking at you knowingly. “He was just trying to cheer me up. I went out for coffee today and some people were giving me…looks.”

You lower your gaze. “Oh.”

“Just Steve being Steve.” She shrugs.

“Right.” Except you’re pretty sure he wouldn’t bother extending the same courtesy to you.

She grabs your arm and drags you away. “Come on. Let’s go get that huge bucket of popcorn for me while you sit there pretending you don’t want any.”

 

**2.**

Steve and Natasha are murmuring quietly to themselves on the jet. They’re off to the side and you can only see their profiles; Natasha’s arms are crossed and Steve’s stance is rigid. They’re standing close together, and the look on their faces says they’re talking about something serious.

The pair of them didn’t start out as the most natural of comrades (who really has in this group?) but they’ve earned it. You know that, which might be the reason for the dull, rankling ache it induces.

Because you want the same with him. So badly, it hurts. But try as you might to be friends with Steve Rogers, he doesn’t appear to be interested.

It stung at first. It still stings.

Their voices trail off when you approach, and while Natasha’s stance becomes more relaxed, arms slipping out from their crossed position, Steve’s broad back remains stiff. He doesn’t turn to face you.

You try to ignore him.

When you ask Natasha about the details of the latest mission’s location, she gives a pithy answer before jerking her head toward the helm where the coordinates have already been plotted. You move ahead, but Steve takes up so much space and there’s hardly any room to squeeze past without touching him.

You mumble something like “sorry” when your back brushes his and avoid both his and Natasha’s gaze as you sweep past.

Two pairs of eyes drill into the back of your head as you walk away, but only one has you feeling like you could fall apart at any given moment.

 

**1.**

He’s looking intently at a bunch of files in the communal kitchen when you walk in.

“Oh. Hi,” you say because you certainly weren’t expecting to cross paths, let alone be in the same room alone with him.

He raises his head to give you his full attention, something you’re still not used to, and sighs through his nose. “Hey.”

You open the refrigerator, pretending to casually rifle through it when you wish you could ask about the despondent look on his face. After you pull out some fruit salad and close the door, he’s still wearing that forlorn expression, though his unseeing gaze is trained on the island counter.

“Whatcha up to?” you ask after some hesitation.

“Hm? Nothing, nothing.” He comes out of his trance and folds his arms over the manila folder as though that will shield it from your view, but you’re able to catch a glimpse of the small photo paper-clipped to the corner of the file.

Peggy Carter.

With nothing else to say, you nod, painfully aware of the silence and your deliberate, self-conscious footsteps as you walk away.

He must be looking at her old S.H.I.E.L.D. files for a reason.

You hate yourself for the needling pain in your chest the thought gives you.

His presence remains a specter along your back as you leave, and you’re only thankful he can’t see the way your eyes screw shut in some unnamed emotion.

 

**+1.**

So you may have had a little too much to drink.

You’re not out of it or going crazy, but your judgment might be just a tad bit off at the moment. You know this because you’ve been flirting with the man next to you without care for most of the evening while Steve’s across the ballroom conversing with Sam.

The guy’s attractive and it’s not like Steve has some monopoly on being attractive and desirable, or like he even _cares_ , so after a whole evening of flirty banter and not-so-innocent touches, you accept the man’s kiss when he brings his lips down to yours.

It’s not bad, the kiss, and you’re enjoying it perfectly fine when your waist is suddenly enveloped in a strong pair of arms and you’re tugged, if not wrenched, away.

Steve’s eyes aren’t typically described as green, but when you whirl around to face him, you find in them a tumultuous mix of blue and green and black whose depths rival only the ocean’s. The steel in his eyes as he stares down at you has your stomach churning violently.

“What the hell, Steve?” You hope your eyes are as fierce as his.

Sparing zero glance at the man with whom you shared a kiss, Steve grabs your arm and all but pulls you away, drawing you into a dark, curtained alcove without any care of who sees.

You hit the wall with a grunt as Steve hovers over you, hands on either side of your head. His harsh breaths are close enough to wash over your bare skin.

“What are you doing?” you demand. The whole unexpected ordeal has effectively chased away any buzz you had.

His nostrils are flared, his mouth is set in a tight line and his jaw is clenched. He looks like he could kill. You’ve never seen him like this before, not out of the field.

“You like that man?” he says, voice gruff.

“So what? What’s it to you?” You attempt to push him back, but his body is as unforgiving as his eyes.

He captures your hands on his chest and pins them to the wall. The moonlight casts his face in ominous shadow. “You go around forming attachments like that, you’ll only end up breaking hearts later. This isn’t a line of work where what you do on the outside doesn’t affect everything else.”

You can practically feel the steam leaving your ears. “Are you serious? Are you kidding me right now? What kind of bullshit answer is that? Can’t form attachments—yeah, as if Clint doesn’t have his own fucking family.”

“And look where that got him. Under threat of prison and house arrest after Germany.”

You glare at him. “You are so full of shit, Rogers. What do you call that little thing with Sharon? Not an attachment, huh? Wow, never took you as a hypocrite.”

“This isn’t about me.”

“Well, this isn’t about _me_ either, so get off me. My date’s waiting for me.”

“You like him that much? You like it when he kissed you?” His face is still drawn into harsh lines, and you’re unable to miss the way his heated gaze keeps flickering down to your mouth.

You have no idea what he’s on about or why, but you’ve had enough. Pushing against his now slackened hold, you escape his hands and step forward, further into his space. He doesn’t back away.

“What I do and who I do it with is my business, and how I handle anything that comes from it is no one’s concern but mine.”

Steve stares down at you, so close your chests brush each other’s with every breath. His brows remain lowered as he looks at you, cold eyes giving nothing away, even as they flicker down to your mouth one last time.

Then, without another word, he sweeps past you and out of the alcove.

When he’s gone, you will your heart rate to return to normal, wondering if what just happened was only all in your head. The muffled sounds of the ballroom reach your ears, but the ensuing silence is deafening.

You don’t make it back to the party for another fifteen minutes.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So I guess I lied. Here's another chapter! I think I'm ok enough now from the heartbreak that was Endgame to try smut again lolz. Changed the rating to E since there will be smut in the next chapter, but not this one, and I think the next chapter will be the last one. Enjoy!

_Thwack!_

Your eyes flit up from the page to the window. It’s the peak of winter in the Chilean Andes and with the impending nightfall will follow more snow, but Steve either doesn’t notice or doesn’t care. He’s been out there for an hour, chopping enough wood to last the pair of you for weeks in just jeans and a white ribbed sleeveless undershirt. He wore his brown leather jacket at first before it must have gotten too hot and he tugged it off. Not that you noticed.

You totally noticed.

It’s been over a week since the incident, when he dragged you inside an alcove and had the audacity to presume any sort of authority over your personal life. You returned to the party, to your date, steeling yourself in every determined effort to ignore him.

But something was missing. There was no prickling sensation, no wave of heat washing over your skin telling you those one-of-a-kind eyes were on you. You dared a glance around the ballroom and at last spotted Sam in a small group—but no Steve beside him. He was nowhere to be found.

Those icy blue-black eyes haunted your dreams and stayed with you in your waking moments. He was utterly confusing, he was needlessly contradictory, he was—

_Thwack!_

You snap the book shut. There’s no use pretending anymore.

He swings the axe down in a single smooth movement, kicking away the severed logs before setting up the next one. He repeats the task with satisfying monotony, and the muscles rippling across his arms, his back and those broad shoulders nearly short-circuit your brain.

He chooses that moment to turn, handsome profile visible to you as he catches his breath and gazes off into the distance.

You have the book pried open in under a second, your eyes glued to the page. When you don’t see him move from the periphery of your vision, your eyes dart back up, but when you look, he twists around at that exact moment to face the window.

His eyes miss yours by just milliseconds. You burn a hole through the page with your unfocused stare, flashes of heat consuming your skin and trickling from your every pore.

Time passes, and by the time he lodges the axe in the tree stump with a final effortless toss, you’ve barely gotten through two pages. The rickety screen door creaks shut behind him when he enters the tiny cabin with firewood piled high in his arms and unloads them by the hearth.

“The rest are on the porch. This should get us through the night.” He stares down at the wood, chest heaving slightly.

“’K.” It’s not meant to be a dismissive response. There’s just not much else you can say in return.

He turns his attention to where you’re curled up on the couch. “How’s the book?”

You study the cover with a cursory glance. “Not that great.”

“That’s what you get for borrowing from Clint. His shelf probably consists of DIYs and biographies of people no one’s ever heard of.” He crosses the room to lock the front door shut.

“You’ve clearly never seen his shelf.”

“I don’t usually make it a habit of indulging in other men’s shelves.” He moves to the window and peeks past the curtain. “Sun’s going down soon.”

“Hm, thought you were more secure in your masculinity than that.”

He turns to you, and though his expression is dry, his direct gaze betrays something dark and intent. “Secure? I’m doing just fine. As for what I like? Let’s just say I’m a man who knows what he wants.”

Eyes piercing yours for a moment longer, he strides to the shower coolly, leaving you with a pulsing ache simmering low and deep past your belly.

The steady sound of streaming water emits from the other room, and you wonder if the two of you will ever get around to addressing the elephant in the room. You wonder if it’s even something you want.

Whatever it was, it was a fluke. He was out of sorts that night, preoccupied with something else and his frustrations came to a head at a moment that happened to involve you. It was bad timing. That was all. Because while you and Steve Rogers were allies, you were not friends, and not-friends—and some friends alike—didn’t speak of such things so easily.

Now, you’re just hoping the others would get there soon. The team had just finished a mission in Chile when a dire emergency calling for the specific skillset of the team cropped up across the border and the efforts had to be split. You and Steve were sent to a safe house in the mountains to await extraction while the others took care of the situation. That was a week ago.

You were initially set to remain at the safe house alone. During a nasty altercation, your side had been slashed by an enemy knife. It wasn’t terribly deep but did require stitches, and it inhibited your movements in a way that made you unable to be at your best for the following operation. Natasha handed you a serum-like substance, claiming a bunch of scientists at the compound had worked on it with Bruce and that it should speed the healing process considerably. It sounded a bit like hocus-pocus to you, but you trusted her judgment and swallowed it down.

Even with the serum in your possession, Steve stepped forward and insisted someone stay with you just to be safe, giving no room for anyone else to speak before volunteering himself. With Natasha backing you up, you told him your wound would be healed within days and he’d only be cutting the team short by one more person for no reason. Still he insisted, and it was only when the cloaked jet arrived at the safe house that you gave up out of sheer frustration and didn’t bother stopping him as he disembarked after you.

For some reason or other, the dresser with more feminine clothing was hardly stocked. It didn’t matter so much what you wore, but you just wished there was more _of_ it. You didn’t bother telling Steve, however, and carried on for most of the week in the same baggy flannel button-up and corduroys. He, on the other hand, still had his leather jacket after taking it on the jet with him for reasons unknown to you.

The running water in the bathroom suddenly comes to a halt, and you can’t stop your imagination from running wild.

_Steve’s in there right now. A room away, naked. No clothes. Nothing._

_Oh, god._

You’re off the couch before you know it, pulling the door open for some much needed air. You trudge around the perimeter of the cabin with your boots and hope you won’t require a jacket with the way your body’s flushing with heat. The snow isn’t very deep yet and the location is so isolated you don’t have to worry so much about any potential hostiles popping up unexpectedly.

You glance at the back window as though it’ll give you answers of any kind, and you’re half out of your mind when your boot catches on a small boulder partially hidden under the snow and you stumble forward with a yelp, right into a large puddle of slush.

You quickly right yourself, but it’s too late. Your button-up is drenched and dirty, and so are the thighs of your corduroys. With a frustrated groan, you wipe away the slush from where it splashed across your face and scrunch up the shirt in a futile effort to drain it of the liquid. You make it back inside to where a fire has been set and Steve stirs something bubbling in a pot atop the stove. This time, he’s in a white t-shirt and navy sleep pants.

“I’m making—what happened?” He looks you up and down, dip between his brows.

You shut the door and shuck off your boots. “A puddle happened. My clumsiness happened.”

You’re on the way to your room when he says, “I’m heating up some soup. It’ll be ready in five.”

You nod and continue to the bedroom. After closing the door behind you, you peel off your wet clothes with a grimace and rifle through the dresser. All that’s left are gray sweatpants, which you don’t mind, and a thin white camisole, which you don’t want to wear around Steve. But you have no other choice, so you pull on the sweats and camisole and open the door to poke your head out, clearing your throat lightly.

“Steve?”

He turns from his place at the stove to look at you. “Yeah?”

“You have a sweater or something I can borrow? There’s practically nothing in my dresser. Maybe last person here forgot to restock or something, I don’t know.”

“Oh. Yeah. Why didn’t you say something?” He disappears inside the bedroom he claimed as his own and comes back out with his leather jacket.

Your brows furrow. “What’s that?”

“What’s it look like? Here. Everything else is in need of a wash.” He gets close enough to toss the jacket. You have to pull the door open more to reach out and catch it, and when you do, you don’t miss the way Steve’s eyes flicker down to the bare skin exposed by your top. The simple action has you floundering, and you pull back before he can sense it.

“Thanks.” You shut the door quickly, looking down at your top. Surely he’s seen women in tank tops before.

Before you can even ponder the oddness of the position you’re in, you shrug on his jacket, and it’s no surprise at all when it nearly engulfs you. But it’s warm and it smells like him and in it, you feel less vulnerable, so wearing his jacket, you exit the room and pad across the nonexistent distance into the kitchen.

You aren’t expecting it when Steve falters at the stovetop, eyes slowly raking over your entire form. It’s like he’s forgotten where he is and the only thing taking up his attention is you and the way you’re wearing his clothes. His throat bobs up and down when he swallows, and it seems he’s having much difficulty lifting his gaze.

It’s ridiculous. You’re covered, but you feel completely naked under his intense stare.

“I know, I look like an idiot.” You say it just to break the tense silence. You probably do look like an idiot. You’re in ratty sweatpants and a jacket you’re practically swimming in. It’s nothing seductive, nothing sexy. Not that you’d ever dare try something like that around Steve—you’d only end up making an even bigger fool of yourself than he already thinks you are.

You fight against his stare, against the way he looks at you with those dark hooded eyes, and step forward. He watches intently, like he’s the predator and you’re his prey.

You control your breathing, tamp down the heaving of your chest, and wet your lips. His eyes follow the movement.

You’re just about to speak—

“Food’s ready.” Steve’s low voice rumbles in the silence. Eyes still on you, he taps the dripping wooden spoon against the pot rim as a final marker before breaking you free from his singular attention. You suck in a short breath.

He switches off the heat and spoons two bowls full with thick, hearty soup. Sparing you another glance, he sweeps past with the bowls in hand. “Come on. Time to eat.”

You move on autopilot. Joining him at the tiny round table where the living room meets the kitchen, you pull your food closer, too afraid to meet his eye.

The meal is taken in silence. The only sounds are the crackling fire and the clinking of silverware against ceramic. The moon has since taken over the sky and snow is already falling. You don’t look at Steve, but you feel him look at you. You somehow think you’ll always feel it when he looks at you.

You finish before him and it would normally be a surprise since the man knows how to pack down his food, but you’ve been so eager to escape his company and retreat to your room that you finish the meal in record time.

You scoot your chair back hastily and stand, thinking you’ve made it, when his long leg suddenly sweeps out under the table and his foot hooks the back of your leg, holding you to him. When you meet his eye, he’s looking back with that same dark look from before.

“You cold?” is all he asks.

Not right now, you’re not. Right now, you’re burning from the inside out.

“Not right now, but I’ll probably get cold during the night,” you manage to say.

His face remains stoic, but you feel him searching, calculating. “Keep the jacket.”

He releases your leg, goes back to his meal and doesn’t spare you another glance.

After leaving your bowl in the sink, you refrain from dashing to your room so as not to give away the thundering of your heart and stand by the closed door for an impossible age.

Normally at this time, you’d be lounging around in the living room, curled up by the fire in relatively content silence with Steve. But not tonight.

Tonight, you’re getting no sleep.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Split the last part into two chapters, so the smut is actually in the next one

“Taking care of some laundry?”

You twist around from your spot in front of the rusted clawfoot tub where you’re rinsing the soap suds from your meager collection of soiled clothes. Leaning against the doorframe with his arms crossed, Steve watches you calmly.

“At this rate, I’ll have nothing to wear if I don’t.” You turn your attention back to your task.

“How’s your side?”

“It healed a week ago, Steve. I told you it would. The stitches are already dissolved; there’s only a scar. I’m fine.”

He sighs through his nose. “Well, guess I just dropped by to let you know the others should be swinging by soon. Tomorrow afternoon, maybe, at the latest.”

“How do you know? I thought we weren’t supposed to communicate with them.”

“We didn’t. I was down in the village and caught something on the news.”

“You know Spanish?”

“Didn’t need to. The pictures were clear enough. They got ’em. They’ll be back soon.”

“Oh.”

“Disappointed?”

You detect a trace of teasing in his tone, one that’s never been directed toward you. It makes you want to oppose him. “Yeah, right.”

“Well, I am.”

You go still. It’s the why of his words that nips away at your thoughts.

What in the world would make him disappointed to be leaving? He says it simply enough, but underneath his words is something no one’s yet to address.

His mention of the others returning soon has to be an invitation, his subtle way of saying, _let’s do this already so I can go back to pretending you don’t exist._

It’s been nearly two days since he lent you his jacket, since you thought you sensed some sort of dark, unspoken promise hidden in the depths of that all too demanding gaze. But the man has never shown a single ounce of interest in you before, certainly not as a friend, let alone anything else. And now he plays at wanting you, and only in the basest, most carnal sense?

So what is it? Restlessness from being all alone in this cabin with you for almost a week and a half now? Is it because you happen to be the only female in his immediate vicinity?

Maybe another you in another life wouldn’t care. Maybe you’d be jumping at the opportunity. He is, after all, a handsome, virile man whose status and capabilities would appeal to most women’s baser instincts.

But based on your interactions with him, he can’t be looking for more in the complete sense of the word. He’s just looking to scratch an itch, and you certainly don’t have to be friends, or even like each other, to do that.

With a rapid furor, wild indignation and anger, mixed with something like hurt, suddenly flare up in your chest.

As stupid and pathetic as you were by managing to develop feelings for him somewhere in between all the silent judgment and stoic glances sent your way in the time you’ve known him, you reasoned away those feelings through observations of his interactions with others. He was a rare breed of man and, cynically, you figured it should’ve come as no surprise when you didn’t even make a blip on his radar.

Still, you always believed you had a general handle on him.

You don’t know much about what he gets up to in his personal life, but you never thought he’d turn out to be the kind of man to use a woman—use _you_ —like that. You don’t even know if he _respects_ you, at the very least.

With shattering disappointment and molten hot regret twisting your insides, you realize you must’ve never known him at all.

You’re on your feet in an instant to let the clothes drip off any excess water, and you hope you’ve swallowed down some of the ire so it doesn’t show on your face when you turn around.

In the beginning, you were able to admit to yourself your reluctance for the others to come back, effectively sucking you and him out of this bubble you’ve made for yourselves.

Now, you can’t wait to be rid of his company.

He’s disappointed they’re coming back soon?

“Sucks for you, then.” Carrying the clothes in a small tub at your hip, you shoulder past Steve to get through the doorway.

You didn’t initially plan on laying the clothes out to dry in your room, but right now, being in the same space as Steve is the last thing you want.

As soon as you enter the room, the first thing that catches your eye is the leather jacket lying at the corner of the bed. You’d worn it on and off over the past two days whenever you got cold, Steve saying nothing all the while, but if he thinks your wearing his jacket entitles him to more, he’s got another thing coming.

After setting the clothes out to dry, you hastily pluck the jacket from the bed and exit the room. Steve’s still lingering by the bathroom door, scowling down at the rug. His head snaps up when he notices your approach. You toss the jacket at him and it lands against his chest in a manner far too gentle for your liking before he catches it.

“What’s this?” he asks, eyebrows drawn together.

“What’s it look like?” At the door, you tug on your boots and a heavy coat with a fur-lined hood.

“Where are you going?”

“Taking a walk.”

“It’s freezing out there.”

“You were out there, weren’t you?”

“Did I somehow miss it when you were injected with a serum that makes you less susceptible to extreme temperatures?”

“I have a coat, Rogers.”

“Don’t be stupid. There’s a storm coming in soon.”

“I’ll live.”

“What’s going on with you?”

“You suddenly care?” Wrenching the door open, you venture out into the snow.

At first, the temperature’s not of much concern with the way you’re fuming and radiating heat with the force of your vexation. But by the time you make it down to the frozen stream where you would’ve liked to wash your clothes instead, the light of day has quickly started to fade and the cold is more biting and impossible to ignore.

You’re being stupid. Very, very stupid.

You spin on your heels to trudge back to the cabin, but when you turn, Steve’s there, not thirty feet away.

“What are you doing out here?” He’s in a heavy jacket similar to yours, and he has to raise his voice to be heard above the blistering wind.

“What are _you_ doing out here?”

He holds in an irritated sigh, or maybe he doesn’t since you wouldn’t be able to hear it from where you’re standing. “You’re going to freeze to death out here.”

You don’t bother telling him you were just about to head back before he showed up and instead start wordlessly in his direction. He waits until you reach his side before he’s moving as well, remaining one or two steps behind.

With the uphill climb and the added resistance from the snow, it’s more of an effort to keep your balance, and when you stumble on an uneven patch of terrain, a gloved hand quickly shoots out to steady you. It’s not often he touches you, and you hate that a large part of you still relishes the feel of his strong grip on your body.

You make the trip back to the cabin in silence. When you make it inside, you toe off your boots and shrug off your coat, grateful for the extra warmth of the fire blazing in the hearth.

“You hungry? I can heat something up,” Steve says behind you.

“I can take care of myself.” You start toward your room, but a firm grip on your bicep stops you.

“Hey, cut it with the attitude. Mind telling me what’s going on here? Everything was fine, and now all of a sudden you decide you want to be hot and cold with me? I do something I don’t know about?”

“ _I’m_ being hot and cold? You’re the one who rarely utters more than two words to me at a time before deciding that oh, I might come in handy, after all.”

“Whoa, whoa, hold on just a minute. What do you think you’re talking about? You always jump to conclusions this fast?”

“I don’t know, Steve, you don’t exactly make it easy for anyone, do you?”

His expression darkens. He still has a hold on your arm. “What exactly do you think you’re talking about here?”

“What am I talking about? How about the fact that this is probably the most we’ve ever spoken to each other outside of the job? You barely give me the time of day and act like I’m beneath you, and now what, you’re all of a sudden interested because you’re bored? What are you playing at here? You think I’m just going to fall into bed with you because you all of a sudden want to pretend you’re interested? You really don’t know me at all, do you?”

He tightens his grip on your arm and drags you closer. You’ve seen this look on his face before, when he trapped you in that alcove and looked like he could kill.

“I know more than you think,” he gets out in a rough, low-pitched voice. “And it’s your mistake for thinking anything less.”

You try to pry yourself free from his grasp. You fail. “What is that even supposed to mean? We never even talk. We’re _not_ friends.”

He practically sneers. “Trust me, I have no interest in being _friends_.”

And if that doesn’t burn like nothing else. “Yeah, you’ve made that perfectly clear. Get your hands off me.”

He doesn’t release you from his clutches, even after you make another attempt to wrench free. After shoving at his chest with no success, you huff out a sharp sound of exasperation.

“What is your problem, Rogers? Is it something else? Something to do with that party?”

You’ve finally said it, and judging by the way his expression immediately turns to steel, you know you’ve hit the nail on the head.

“So what, you’re suddenly interested because of one date I had at some party? Are you really that used to getting what you want that you can’t stand someone not wanting you back?”

He laughs, and it’s dry and bitter and mean. “I _never_ get what I want.”

You’re rendered speechless.

“I told you I’m a man who knows what he wants. Whether or not I actually get it? That’s another matter entirely.”

You can’t get a hold on any of this. It’s too much to process. You don’t even know what he’s saying. You just want to know one thing.

“Just—why me? Why do you treat me differently from everyone else? Why do you act like I’m beneath you?”

He regards you with barely suppressed disbelief. “Beneath me? Is that really what you think?”

“What else would I think? You go around being your usual self with the others, but when I’m around, you act like I’m just some nuisance who won the lottery to get to the position I did. Do you know how that makes me feel? To feel like I don’t have the respect of my peers when the least we should do is be able to trust each other?”

“Is that what this is about? You think I don’t respect you?”

“It’s not just about that, Rogers. It’s the fact that you’re so fucking confusing when things between us should be _so simple_. So tell me—why me?”

“Why you? Why you? You really want to know?”

“I asked, didn’t I?”

You can clearly see he’s using every ounce of his willpower to maintain control over himself. “I’m losing my mind here,” he says, nostrils flaring. “Let me make this one thing clear.”

“What, Rogers?” you hiss through clenched teeth. You’re seething at this point, and he has to squeeze your arm and pull to get you to stop writhing.

When he speaks, his voice is thick and harsh, like he has to rein in some beast that’s clawing to get out. “I. _Want_ you.”

“What, because I’m available?” You finally wrest yourself from his grip and spin on your heel to leave, but his arms shoot out to grab you by the waist before he hauls you back.

“Dammit, no. Stop _moving_. Because…because, dammit, I can never think straight when I’m around you, alright? Never. You got me half out of my mind whenever I’m around you. You make me want things I shouldn’t want…feel things I shouldn’t be feeling. And because—” His irises turn to black. “When I saw that man’s hands on you, when he _kissed_ you, it took everything in my power not to walk across that room and rip him apart, limb from limb.”

Your insides are like lava. Red hot, scorching lava.

“You want to know why I don’t want to be friends?” Stepping closer, he invades your space even further until he’s the only thing taking up your line of sight. “’Cause it’s not in my nature to settle for less, and what I want from you…it’s the furthest thing from friendship.”

His powerful body hovers over you, enveloping you in his intoxicating, masculine presence. His beauty is startling this up close. “Tell me you want the same thing.”

His lips are inches from yours. He squeezes your waist, strokes your sides with his thumbs. “What do you want? Tell me, and I’ll give it to you.” His mouth brushes a path downward, nose grazing your throat. “I swear, I’ll give you anything you want. Just tell me.”

You don’t answer. You can’t do anything but bask in the heat of his touch.

His breath ghosts over your skin, painstakingly close.

Then, like he can hold back no longer, he closes the distance one millimeter at a time, and presses a soft kiss to your neck.


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In case anyone missed it, I just posted a new chapter right before this one.
> 
> p.s. there be pure smut ahead

It’s a battle for dominance in this heavy two-hander of hands and lips.

With one hand gripping the back of your neck, he yanks you over so that your body is flush to his and you have no choice but to feel the full length of his firm, unyielding body against yours. His hand moves to your ass, clutching it like it’s his last lifeline.

You press yourself even closer, hoping to bring him back a step or two, but he barely budges. The only thing you succeed in doing is molding your body even more to his.

He takes the move solely as a sign of your eagerness, and his strong hands slide under your ass to haul you up. Your legs automatically go around his waist as he moves forward to slam you up against the wall, and you barely have time to catch your breath before his mouth lands on yours again, never letting up.

You moan his name into his mouth, try to turn away, and at last he grants you momentary reprieve where you can draw in a breath, with him all the while tracing kisses along your jaw and down to the hollow of your throat.

The way he kisses is at total odds with the way he acts with you. When his mouth finds its way back to yours, he devours it like a man dying of hunger. Like he wants to erase any memory of another man’s lips ever being on yours.

He presses his hips to yours and you gasp. He’s already so aroused. The tantalizing pressure has every part of you aching with white-hot lust.

A throaty groan escapes his lips when he feels you press down further against him, and his hands slither under the hem of your top to grip your flesh skin to skin. It’s soon not enough, and he’s hastily tugging your top over your head, leaving you in your bra. Then he launches himself off the wall, taking you with him, and is on the move again.

You land on the couch and Steve’s strong body covers yours like a second skin. Trailing hot kisses down your torso, he slides off your sweatpants before tugging off his own shirt, eyes drinking in the sight of you bared and spread out before him.

“Look at you,” he says in a gruff voice. His eyes are pitch black as he runs a hand down your heated skin like he’s mapping it out. “You been hiding this from me this whole time?”

“Not hiding,” you say breathlessly. “Not my fault you didn’t want me before.”

He lets out a groan, half from frustration and the other half from hunger, and lands on top of you. “What’d we just go over? None of that anymore, you hear me?”

You’re almost tempted to tell him to stop talking and get on with it, but the sound of him drunk on lust because of you, when you’re so used to hearing him in every context but that, is too hot of an experience to pass up.

Still, you tell him, “Shut up and kiss me, Rogers.”

“It’s Steve.”

Then his mouth is on yours, hot and demanding.

Something in you wants to challenge him. Show him you’re not a weakling, even if you are sometimes.

You lock your legs around his waist and, with a twist of your hips, pitch sideways. He doesn’t expect the move and sails backward, right off the couch and onto the floor across from the fire. He lands with a loud grunt and you on top of him.

“Really?” He all but glares at you with an arm still locked around your waist.

Your smirk is wiped right off when he does another spin and has you on your back again. He kisses your neck so thoroughly you almost don’t notice it when he works your bra off. You undo his belt and tug his jeans down as far as they’ll go from your position before he takes them off entirely, and his underwear with them.

All you can do is stare.

Every last bit of him is perfection. From the corded muscles in his arms and torso to the distinct v-shaped line carved out below, he is nothing if not pure, undiluted art.

And even farther down, a studied glimpse of what’s been hidden beneath those pants all this time has your pussy throbbing with need. His cock is so close you can feel the heat emanating from it. He will fill you up _very_ well.

He doesn’t mind your staring. Not with the way his cock gives a heavy twitch at the sight of you lying beneath him, ready for the taking.

While your hands get their fill of his sculpted body, his slide down your hips until they land at your underwear. He bunches the fabric up into his fists and rips it clean off.

He heaves your thighs onto his thick forearms so he can get a better look at you down there, and the position leaves you feeling all too vulnerable and exposed.

“Fuck me,” he murmurs. “Don’t even have to put my hands on you to know how wet you are. Is this for me?”

He knows damn well that it is. It’s ridiculous how easily your body responds to him.

When you don’t answer, he gives your pussy a nice, sharp slap. You gasp.

“Asked you a question, sweetheart. This all for me?”

“Yes,” you whine, wriggling in his grasp. “Just fuck me, Rogers.”

His expression darkens as he squeezes your thighs in a near death grip. “ _Steve_.”

You respond with a breathless whimper and lock your heels around his hips, urging him closer.

It’s only when he’s pumping himself in his hand and about to slide in when you come to your senses.

“Wait,” you say, breathless.

As though he’s on a slight time delay, he drags his hungry gaze up from where you were just about to join to meet your eyes. He’s impatient, likely annoyed.

“Condom,” is all you tell him.

Chest heaving with the exertion from holding himself back, he lets his eyes fall shut for a brief moment. “Condom,” he repeats in a husky voice. “Damn it.”

Reluctantly, he disentangles his limbs from yours and gets up to disappear into the bedroom he claimed for himself, giving you an unencumbered view of his perfect, toned backside.

“Nice ass,” you say.

He throws you a dry look over his shoulder mid-stride. You’d giggle if it weren’t for the overwhelming need to have him inside you right now.

“Where’d you find one?” you ask when he returns with the foil packet and a pillow in hand. Your stomach does nasty flips when you consider that he may carry around condoms wherever he goes.

“Bedside drawer,” he answers.

Oh.

He arches his brow as he lands on his knees in front of you and pushes the pillow up the floor. “Jealous?”

You settle the pillow under your head and feign an eye roll. “In your dreams.”

He rips off the wrapper and rolls the condom down his thick shaft, chuckling mirthlessly. “You been sneaking around my head at night?”

Then he hauls your legs up onto his solid thighs and yanks you forward before draping himself over you. He snakes a hand down to your entrance, testing the wetness, and slides a thick finger inside. He lets out a hot breath that washes over your skin.

“So goddamn tight. When’s the last time you let someone take you?”

“None of your business.”

“Is it, now?” He continues pumping his finger in and out, smooth and deep. Soon he adds another, moving his fingers in a scissoring motion to open you up more. “Gotta get you nice and ready so you can take me. Somethin’ tells me it’ll be a tight fit. But I gotta say,” he says with a lazy wet of his lips as he adds a third finger, “I like it a lot more than I should that it’ll take some work getting me to fit inside.”

You push back against his hand, mewling for more as he works his fingers in and out at a pace and angle just right for the release you can feel on the horizon. You’re so strung up it’s no surprise you’re about ready to lose it, but then he circles your clit with his thumb and you’re done for.

The orgasm rips through you as you moan helplessly, lost to the moment.

“Fuck, that’s it,” Steve groans as he watches raptly, an edge of violent need permeating his rough-pitched voice. “Gonna get you to cum just like that on my cock.”

He works you through your orgasm before slipping his fingers out and taking his heavy cock in hand. The thought of that long and impossibly thick cock somehow fitting inside you is enough to make you nearly pass out.

He slaps your clit with the underside of his shaft a couple times. After running himself up and down your wet folds to his satisfaction, he pits the crown of his cock at your entrance.

Steve is an attentive man. Focused. When he does something, he does it. And right now, all that focus and pent-up energy is zeroed in on you. His energy is a potent force, an entity all its own. It’s commanding and intense and won’t rest until it’s had its fill. You have no idea how you’ve managed to keep from wilting under his stare every other time he’s set those burning blue eyes on you.

The first slide in has you gasping for air.

Already, he’s so thick and the pressure is immense. But your previous orgasm left you a little more relaxed, allowing him to work himself in one torturous inch at a time.

He watches you all the while. He takes in every expression, every minutiae of your reaction as if he’s cataloging it and stowing it away for future use.

He’s still coming in, and you’re not even sure he’s halfway there. It’s too much. He’s too much.

Just when you think you can’t take anymore, he lets out a harsh grunt and his pelvis meets yours. The sensation is overwhelming. It’s one thing to see his thickness, but to feel it inside you, snug against your aching walls, is another.

He holds still for a long, agonizing moment, letting you feel the sheer enormity of him. Your walls stretch to accommodate and mold to him. You’re absolutely full, stuffed to the brim, almost to the point of pain. He’s so deep, so huge you can feel every throb of his cock.

The man is thick _all over_.

“Drive me goddamn crazy,” he groans into your neck. “So fucking tight, just like I knew you’d be. All mine.”

The roar of the fire in the hearth has got nothing on the blood in your veins.

“Steve,” you whimper. “You’re so big…”

With a tenderness you don’t expect, he brushes the hair back from your face. “It’s alright, baby. You fit me perfectly.”

He draws back a little only to slide back in, hitting you so deep over and over you swear you can feel him in the back of your throat.

You’re lost to the pleasure as you moan out his name, knotting your fingers in his blond hair like you’ve always longed to do. He cages you in with his powerful body, delivering perfect, deep thrusts as his hips pump at a carefully measured pace. He drives in like he means to embed himself within you so permanently that you won’t ever so much as even think about another man.

His fingers tangle up in your hair. The rough tug on your scalp brings your gaze over to his.

“You’re mine now, you got that?” he says. “From here on out, every inch of you belongs to me. Only me.” There’s no room for compromise in his possessive tone.

When you don’t answer, he gives a sharp thrust that hits a little too deep. “You hear me? I asked you a question.”

“God, Steve,” you whine, nails digging into his thick bicep.

“Not an answer, sweetheart.” He gives another punctuated thrust, firm abdomen flush against yours. “Only one fucking you like this from now on is me. Only one kissing you will be me. I don’t play around, and I don’t share. Got it?”

He grinds into your pussy, rubbing against your clit in the most satisfying way. “About to lose my patience here.”

You keen at the friction and attempt to push back against him, delirious with want. “What do you…oh, God, Steve…what do you want from me?” It’s too much, too intense.

“Everything,” he says. “Every part of you. I won’t settle for less.” Another thrust, another rub against your clit. “You’re mine. My woman.”

You’ll say anything for this man.

“Yes,” you moan. “Yes, yes, God, yes, Steve, just please, please fuck me.”

He growls low in his throat and takes your mouth in a bruising kiss. “Next time I fuck you, I want you wearing my jacket and nothing else.”

And you’ll do anything for him too.

It’s not long before you’re cumming again with the way he’s grinding up against your clit. But the man is still impossibly hard and thick, nowhere close to the end.

He straightens up on his haunches, hooking your leg over his broad shoulder. With one hand on your thigh and the other tight on your waist, he watches himself slide in and out, basking in the slick sensation of your velvet walls hugging his huge cock. “That’s it, baby, take all of it. Fuck, take it, just like that.”

His thrusts are relentless, unforgiving, with so much power behind them. He fucks you hard and fierce, hips pumping at breathtaking speed. His hands and mouth mark you, leaving no doubt in your mind about who you belong to. As he hammers away like a man possessed and plunders your mouth, he never lets you escape those blazing blue eyes.

To have _this_ man be like _this_ with you, to see him stripped down to his raw, masculine form, the one whose sole objective is carnal pleasure…it’s too much.

His big hand splays out on your belly in a possessive gesture, almost like he’s trying to feel his claim on the other side. You can tell by the way his mouth drops open just a little further and his brows draw tighter together that he’s close. That, and the swelling of his cock.

He wrings another orgasm out of you before he goes. He rubs away at your clit, murmuring filthy words you never would’ve expected to hear from his mouth. Your release is so acute and so intense you swear you’re projected onto another plane of existence.

Steve drapes himself over you and drinks in your moans with lips to yours, fucking you right through your orgasm. He thrusts sharply a few more times before planting himself as deep as he can go and letting out a long, harsh groan. You feel the strong pulsing of his cock as he rocks into you, drawing out his release.

Both of you are slick with sweat. Your chests are heaving, and you feel boneless. Steve remains inside you, unmoving for some time, face digging into your temple in what can only be described as a nuzzle. You’re more aware than ever of his large frame still caging you in and that proportionately large cock still locking you to him.

After what seems like an age, he pulls out carefully, not without a slight wince on your end. You’re definitely going to be sore the next day.

Steve plops himself facedown at your side, head resting on his arm. He looks utterly spent.

“You got a dirty mouth on you, Steve,” you pant at him for whatever reason.

“I can put it somewhere else if you like.”

Jesus.

Even though you’re exhausted, you have no clue what to do, so you start to get up just to do something.

His arm shoots out to encircle your waist. He hauls you back to his side. “Where do you think you’re going?” His voice is hoarse and he’s still lying facedown.

“I was just…” You have no idea where the sentence is going.

“Relax. Go to sleep.” Even when he’s tired, he manages to sound authoritative.

“The fire,” is all you say.

“I’ll get it later,” he mumbles. “Go to sleep.”

When you finally relax, he presses closer and envelops you in his secure hold.

Huh. Steve Rogers is a cuddler.

Eventually, he pulls away to rid himself of the condom. When he comes back, it’s with an extra pillow and a blanket. He puts them down to put out the fire before setting his pillow up beside yours and laying the blanket out over the both of you.

He pulls you back into his arms, and together, you fall asleep.

He, of course, has the stamina of a god and is seemingly intent on bringing you down with him.

After the first round, there’s a second some time in the middle of the night, and then a third just before dawn. He wakes you in the burgeoning light of morning by turning you over onto your belly and rutting into you from behind, broad chest blanketing your back. When he finishes, he flips you onto your back and traces his knuckles down your cheek, kissing you as the winter sun peeks over the horizon.

A little before noon, the others arrive. Before then, Steve collects on his promise and fucks you over the kitchen counter as you wear nothing but his leather jacket.

You’re still wearing the jacket as you exit your room with your bag in tow, this time fully dressed. He’s in the living room slipping on his watch, and when he sees what you’re wearing, he smiles a secretive smile.

You cross the room for the front door, but he grabs your arm before you can make it.

“Still cold?” he asks with a faint smirk.

You shrug lightly. “Looks good on me, don’t you think?”

“Don’t think I’ve ever seen something look right at home as you do in that jacket.”

“Well, I’m keeping it. Sorry not sorry.”

“And I’m keeping you.” His hand travels to your ass to tug you over. He plants a slow, claiming kiss to your mouth.

You pull away, the humor in your eyes mingling with renewed hunger. “See you on the jet, Rogers.”

“It’s Steve,” he says dryly as you head toward the door.

You stop at the threshold. “Is it? Oh, sorry, guess I must’ve gotten you mixed up with that one guy from that party. Oops.” With a fake grimace, you scurry out the door to where the others are waiting before he can catch you.

“You…” you make out his warning from inside the cabin.

You snicker to yourself and hurry ahead, knowing he’ll get you back for that comment later.

You’re looking forward to it immensely.


End file.
